Picking the Locked
by Silindro
Summary: Complete. Logan spends the evening trying to pick the lock to Marie's door because she refuses to let him in. Seasonal story a.k.a. Valentine's Day fic.


a/n: Two years ago a bored author (read: me) started a Valentine's Day story. Conveniently enough, the ending finally came to her around the right season (better than a posting at Halloween or something crazy like that!).

Enjoy.

_And yes, the title IS correct. Consider the word 'Locked' a noun rather than an adjective. _

**Picking the Locked** ---

The pent-up sounds of frustration rang out loud and clear through the Plexiglass windows of the Danger Room control center. Rogue was going through round three of her annual Valentine's Day workout which was officially titled (and appropriately named) _Simulation 674: Broken Hearts and Broken Heads_. It was her way of relieving the anger and disappointment of another lonely year gone by.

Rogue's absolute disregard for Scott's authority left the students Danger Room-less for their daily afternoon mutant ability exercises. In the best interests of individual combat studies, Scott had ushered his advanced group into the control center to watch a portion of Rogue's session. Watching her unleash her rage on foe after foe was an excellent morale booster, though Scott would have preferred that the students not be so enamored by such primal conflicts.

"Look at her go," one of the students in front said. "There's just no stopping her."

"I've never seen her so angry before," another commented. "Wonder what's got her so torn up."

Scott rested his chin on his hand and thought a little on the student's musing. To the staff and those that had been around for Rogue's teen years it was easy to see why she fought the Danger Room session like she did year after year. It was all because of Logan and his foolish attempts at finding his past. They had seen the heartbreak. They had lived with what his leaving had left behind.

It had been years and years ago, though, and Scott wondered if time really did heal all wounds. If that were the case, wouldn't Rogue have been better by now?

A round of applause was unheard in the smoke and sparks below as Rogue stood amidst a broken field of Sentinel parts. Round three was just another battle that meant nothing to her. She designed them to be dangerous, and erring on the side of caution was something she never thought about. If she got hurt then she got hurt. There was no glory in her actions.

As the scenery began to change she could see the window of the control center above fade into view. Scott stood alone, waiting for the next round to begin. Rogue wondered if he had been up there the whole time, watching her work herself into exhaustion.

After giving a small salute to the 'captain', she jumped out of the way to avoid being struck by stray bullets from G.R.S.O. soldier guns. Hiding behind a large, steel warehouse column, she wondered if the pain of rejection would ever stop.

The pain never stopped, though. And the fighting never stopped. Nothing ever stopped. Anger was the constant in her life, masking the real emotion inside, the sentiments that no one ever got to see.

Hours later, it was decided that level seven was as masochistic as Rogue felt she needed to be; a far cry from the previous year, and the year before that, where nine and eleven had been the lucky numbers, respectively. She was intent on gradually getting rid of the heartache, and it would be the perfect year to start working on that goal. She was a grown woman, twenty-three years old. She didn't need the burden that Logan's missing presence had wrought.

Kicking through slowly fading building rubble, Rogue made her way to the door. She'd had enough fighting and aggravation for one day. It was time for a hot shower and a bottle of bourbon. She had picked up a taste for the stuff one afternoon with Logan over a hockey game. She'd wanted to do things that he'd appreciate, and Southern Comfort was just another habit.

The lockers room was empty as she walked in, a perfect reminder of not only the holiday, but of how she felt inside. Walking over to her locker, her footsteps echoed off the walls. She stripped off her dirty uniform and under things and threw them in the laundry hamper on her way to the shower. Turning on the faucets, she waited for the temperature to rise. Stepping under the spray, she began to cry out her frustration for five years of hope and sorrow. Again.

--- --- --- --- ---

The sounds of silverware clanking against fine china during a later than usual (yet supposedly romantic) dinner were barely audible as Rogue took the long way back to her room. It was in the best interests of everyone if she didn't have to see others' smiling faces for the remainder of the day. She didn't want reminders that she was alone, but there were mementos everywhere for her to see. Love was in the air, it couldn't be helped.

Glancing out the window as she began her walk along the second floor hallway, she noticed that it had begun to snow. The forecast had predicted a light dusting, but the flakes falling outside were quite a bit bigger than what anyone had anticipated. Stopping at the window, she put her hands on the cold glass. Her breath fogged up the window, and like a child, she drew a thin line with her fingertip.

For several minutes she stared out into the endless sheets of white until a single headlight turned off the far road and onto the mansion's drive. As the headlight got closer, she made out the figure of a motorcycle with a lone rider at the helm.

"It can't be," Rogue whispered to herself.

The bike stopped just in front of the front doors as the ride powered down the machine. Rogue pressed closer to the window, waiting for the man on the bike to make a move. He took off his helmet and looked up at the second floor window, waiting for the Rogue to make a move as well.

Turning away from the window, Rogue walked back down the stairs and into the foyer where the doors were opening. In walked the Wolverine, snow-covered and tired from a long journey on the road.

"Hi," he greeted, running a hand through his hair.

Rogue stood there with her mouth hanging open.

"Aren'tcha gonna welcome me back?"

Rogue made no move to do that.

"You gonna stare at me all night?"

"If you think walking in that door is gonna make me fall for you all over again," she growled out, "you're dead wrong."

Logan gave a wry smile. "Thought that might be the case."

Crossing her arms protectively in front of her chest, Rogue wondered how many times she had thought of this exact scenario, and how many times she had ever been unable to do anything more than think and stand motionless. There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, but nothing came to the forefront of her mind. She wasn't even sure that anything she could say to him would be enough to express five years of frustration gone by.

"Marie, look-"

The sharp sting of Marie's hand slapping his face startled him into silence. He looked at the woman before him and realized for the first time since he'd walked in the door that the confused teenager he'd left behind was gone. He hadn't expected her to stay eighteen forever, but he definitely hadn't expected to find an angry, unforgiving woman standing in her place.

"There's no need to-"

"Yes, Logan, there _is_ a need. I've had needs since the day you left," she said with narrowed eyes. Her fists clenched tightly at her side. "Five years, Logan. Five years without any word from you, wondering if you're ever coming back."

"I didn't drive all the way from Edmonton to be reprimanded by some woman with a bad temper," he said callously. "I can get that down at the bar."

"Then what did you come back for?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but Ororo came walking down the staircase and right into the middle of the hesitated stillness. She nodded briefly at Rogue before giving Logan a bright, welcoming smile. Taking the chance to get out, Rogue darted up the stairs, leaving heartache in the company of others.

--- --- --- --- ---

By the time Logan had waded through his gathering of hellos and welcome backs, he had almost forgotten why Marie had darted off in the first place. It had been over two hours after everyone had taken their time and had their say. Vaguely he remembered that she had shared a room on the second floor with the other girls her age, but since she was a woman now instead of a teenager, he guessed that she had her own room somewhere else.

Sliding his hand up the banister as he walked, he wondered if she had locked the door. Surely she didn't think that something as insignificant as a piece of wood would stop him from getting to her. He had ridden that motorcycle for far too long to let a piece of a tree stand in his way.

The light, fading scent of her perfume was just strong enough to follow, and he found her room at the end of the hall. Reaching out, he jiggled the handle to find that it wouldn't budge. Standing up straight and mustering up as much civility as he could, he called out to her.

"Open up, Marie!"

"Go to hell, Logan."

"Come on, sweetheart, this is no way to start things."

"It's a great way to finish them!"

His lip turned up in a cheeky half smile. She was quit witted, that was for sure. He hadn't remembered her being such a smartass when he had left, and he found himself curious at where she would have picked up her sharp tongue.

"Don't be like this," he said half-heartedly. Inside he was ready for more of a challenge.

There was no reply.

Bending down on one knee, he looked at the door lock in front of him. Instead of electronic locks for the rooms, Xavier had gone with traditional key locks, and this worked to the Wolverine's less-destructive advantage.

Popping out a claw, he stuck it inside the hole and began twisting and shifting it around like a locksmith who wasn't very good at his job.

"What are you doing?" The voice was louder and clearer, obviously just on the other side of the door.

"You won't open the door," he said distractedly, "so I'm gonna pick this lock if it takes me all night."

There was a muffled, mumbled retort and then the sound of footsteps as they walked away. Logan shrugged his shoulders and continued on with his plan of doing things the 'right way'. Not that lock picking was considered normal, but somewhere between the staircase and the door he had decided that tearing up the Professor's doors and décor was not the best way to go.

Sometime after many of the hall's occupants had gone to bed (with strange looks and curious comments given in his direction), he had decided that his claws just weren't getting him anywhere. He pulled the adamantium back inside of his body and fell back against the floor with a hard thud.

Sighing heavily, he realized that he'd probably still be sitting outside her room until she decided to open up, or until he decided that Charles' bank account could suffer through the cost of a new door.

Leaning back against the cold wood, he decided to sit it out. A few hours were worth the wait if he could catch her when she decided to try and slip past his guard. Maybe then he could take her back in that room and talk some sense into that thick skull of hers. It didn't make sense that she was making such a fuss out of things.

And since when did he assume that there were things they needed to work out anyway? When did he assume that she assumed these things? It was all confusing.

He would wait it out until morning. Maybe the answers would come to him by then.

--- --- --- --- ---

Sitting on the bed with her feet tucked under her body, Marie wondered why she had such a strong surge of hateful emotion at Logan's return. Of all the times she had imagined their reunion, never once had she imagined slapping the man and locking herself in her room like a teenager.

"You're such a fool," she chastised herself. "Treatin' him like he's unwanted is no way to win him over."

It was after midnight now, and he'd stopped trying to pick the lock a while back. If the doors weren't so secure she could probably tell by his shadow if he was still sitting outside, but there was no light coming in and no crack at the bottom of the door to see out.

"Ya big baby," she sighed. "Get out there and say you're sorry."

As she opened the thick, mahogany door, Logan's weight pushed it open much faster than she could stop it. It wood slammed into the wall, crashing loudly and probably denting the wall, but she was more concerned about the unconscious man at her feet.

His body had made a hard knock against the floor, and yet he was still snoring softly in slumber. It didn't surprise her that he had camped outside of her room, but now that he was there she didn't know exactly what to do.

Leaning down to his level, she shook his shoulder slightly, just as she had wanted to do the last time when he had been experiencing a nightmare. The memory was vivid and frightening, and it made her hesitate slightly before reaching out again to press against his shoulder.

"Logan, wake up."

"Mmm," came a sleepy groan.

"Come on, open your eyes."

Hazel orbs peeked up sleepily at the voice that called and he wondered how long he had been laying on the floor at her feet. Sitting up slowly, he did his best not to look angry at their situation.

"Why'd you lock me out?" he asked.

"I was angry," she said, "and I wasn't thinking clearly. I'm sorry."

Slapping his hand to chest suddenly as if she had said the magic words, he felt around his pocket for something that he knew was there. Marie watched curiously as he dug into his coat, trying to pull whatever it was out.

Grinning lazily, he handed her a folded, worn envelope. It looked like it had been carried around in his coat for a very long time.

"It's ironic," he said as she tugged at the seal. "All these years I spent trying to think of some way to apologize for all the things I've done and here you are apologizing to me."

Marie tugged the worn card out of its wrapping and read over the bold writing (a humorous 'I'm Sorry' card) as he spoke.

"I know it's no card fitting of the season, but you and me never did do things the normal way."

Smiling softly, she questioned why she could ever hate someone who went so far out of his way to make things right. They were both the same, lonely people with problems that no one else could ever seem to solve. And they drew into each other like there was no one else in the world to hold onto.

Sitting in the doorway, Logan pulled Marie to his chest and held tightly onto her like she would slip away if he ever let go. She grabbed at his shirt and closed her eyes tight, afraid of opening them for fear that he might not be there when she opened them back up.

Sleep took them there that night, and they took each other every night thereafter. In the loneliness they found companionship.

And the best part of all? There was finally the _chance_ for a happily ever after.

--- --- ---

A/N: Just one of those things that had to be finished at all costs.

References to the drink Southern Comfort come from another of my fics with the same title. Speaking of other fics, I have a ton of them! Check 'em out and make a starving author happy.

_Silent readers go to Fanfiction Hell. Redeem thyself now and review!_


End file.
